


The Hornet's Nest

by followthattardis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (followed by gay sex tho), F/M, Genderswap, M/M, Porn pretending to be plot, Sam is a protective brother-in-law, Witch Curses, there's some straight sex here watch out everyone, this fic actually passes the Bechdel test imagine that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthattardis/pseuds/followthattardis
Summary: While on a hunt, Cas winds up on the receiving end of a gender-swapping spell. He intends to simply wait it out, but Dean has other ideas.Sam is unimpressed.





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic first popped into my head about four years ago, and it was only the news about Supernatural ending that spurred me to finally write it. Worth the wait? You decide.
> 
> The story takes place at an undetermined point in time where Dean, Sam and Cas (who's an angel minus wings) live in the bunker and hunt together. No Jack, no Mary, no hunters from the apocalypse universe. Don't ask for an explanation because there isn't any - just enjoy the OG Team Free Will, folks.

It all comes down to his own stupid mistake.

He knows he shouldn’t let the witch out of his sight. She’s already proven herself to be powerful, skillfully evading them for days while they chased her from one town to the next. She’s smart, and she can cover her tracks well; even the three of them, seasoned hunters with years of experience to spare, have been struggling to catch up.

So when they finally manage to accost her in some podunk town in rural Nebraska, the last thing any of them should do is turn their back on her. Except that when she flicks her wrist, an incantation quick and sharp on her lips, and sends Dean flying across the room, Castiel cannot help it.

Just for a second, he looks away from her, dread climbing up his spine when Dean doesn’t immediately bounce back on his feet. Castiel’s finger still rests on the trigger of his gun, his stance never wavering, but there’s a reason this witch has eluded them for so long.

In the heartbeat between Dean’s body hitting the wall and Castiel turning back around to face her, ready to empty his clip into her chest, the witch is gone. There’s a rustle of fabric somewhere behind him, a soft laugh and a gust of air on his cheek. Before he has any chance to react, the spell hits its mark, burrowing into him like a tick. He makes a last-ditch effort to swing back his gun-wielding arm, fires two haphazard shots that probably miss her by five feet, and then the spell _really_ starts to take root, knocking his feet from under him. He drops to his knees and hears her say, _oh, this should be fun._

“Cas!” a voice yells from somewhere to his left, followed by a slew of witch-killing bullets. He doesn’t see if any of them hit her; his head grows heavy, and he slides onto the floor while the spell inside him swells and swells and swells.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Holy fuck, that’s weird,” somebody above him mutters.

Castiel opens his eyes.

The Winchesters are standing over him, Sam sporting a split lip and Dean rubbing the back of his head, wincing like there’s a bump forming there. They both look worse for the wear, but they’re alive and that’s all that matters.

Castiel gives them a tired smile.

“Is she dead?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head, but he doesn’t look all that preoccupied with the fact they’ve struck out again, and Castiel immediately knows why.

The voice that just came out of his mouth is not his.

He sits up abruptly and looks down at himself.

“Huh,” he says.

“Don’t overreact,” Dean snorts. “You don’t happen to know why that Rowena wannabe turned you into a chick, do you?”

Castiel doesn’t. He would understand if she tried to kill him or knock him out, but this seems like way too much trouble to go into considering the end result. He lifts his hands and turns them over, palms up and then back down. His new fingers are slimmer and slightly shorter. He shrugs. They can still hold a blade.

“Maybe she wanted to incapacitate me,” he offers, even though it doesn’t really make sense. Judging by the frown on Sam’s face, he doesn’t think so either.

“Except this doesn’t incapacitate you, does it?” he says. “You look different, but that doesn’t stop you from going after her again.”

“Y’all aren’t asking the most important question,” Dean cuts in. He extends his hand towards Castiel as he says it, a silent offer to help him up. He clearly doesn’t think about what he’s doing; it’s second nature at this point, with how many times they’ve done it for each other over the years. Castiel also doesn’t think much of it when he grasps Dean’s hand and lets himself be pulled up. It’s only when his palm slides into Dean’s, and he’s hauled up right into Dean’s space, that the difference becomes apparent.

Whenever Dean does this, he lingers; lets his thumb run across Castiel’s skin before pulling away; only drops his hand when Castiel is steady on his feet, and maybe even later than that.

But he’ll do it all with shame ghosting behind his eyes.

There’s no shame there now.

“That question is,” he says, smiling broadly at Castiel, still holding his hand, “if it’s permanent.”

It’s a fair point, but Castiel can’t even attempt to come up with an answer with the way Dean is looking at him. He’s used to having Dean watch his face, but now Dean’s eyes are all over, inspecting every detail of this new body.

_He likes it_ , Castiel realizes.

“It shouldn’t be,” Sam says, slowly. “She’s powerful, but curses like that almost always have an expiration date.”

“And what date would that be?” Dean asks. He’s still holding onto Castiel’s hand, and it proves incredibly distracting.

Sam gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Guess we’ll see. Could be 24 hours, could be a week. I don’t think it’ll be longer than that.”

“All right,” Dean says. Then he turns to Castiel, as if in afterthought, and asks: “You’re okay, aren’t you? I mean, you feel like you?”

“Of course I feel like me,” Castiel says, suddenly feeling irritated. He lets go of Dean’s hand. “The spell only changed my outward appearance. Now, can we please focus on finally hunting down that witch?”

He doesn’t know where his annoyance comes from, except that he does. Dean Winchester is looking at him the way he looks at nameless women in the towns they visit, following one hunt after another. Waitresses, bar patrons, witnesses. He watches them with an impish smile and twinkling eyes, a hope of fleeting bliss and an underlying certainty that he will never see them again.

Castiel doesn’t want Dean to look at him like that.

“She’s got a twenty minute head start on us,” Sam sighs. “It might take us weeks to find her again.”

“Are you saying we should give up?” Castiel says tersely.

“No, of course not. I’m saying we should regroup and ask Rowena for help.”

“No offence to your intellect, Sammy,” Dean says, in a tone that implies offending Sam’s intellect is his main goal, “but why would Queen Witch help us hunt down one of her own?”

“Let me worry about that,” Sam says curtly. “It’s only a three hour drive back to the bunker, and it would be stupid to pay for another night at the motel if the witch is gone anyway. Besides,” he adds, turning to Castiel, a smile softening his face, “Cas needs new clothes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel sags onto his bed, dropping his duffel bag on the floor next to the nightstand. It’s barely past 7 p.m., and he has no idea what he’s going to do with himself until morning. Sam and Dean will probably be heading to bed soon – they’ve barely been sleeping this whole week, hot on the witch’s heels, never quite close enough – and he’s going to have to kill time waiting for them to wake up. Usually he’ll just settle into an armchair with a book from the Men of Letters library, annotating it and correcting mistakes as he goes, but tonight he doesn’t feel like it.

Having this new body is jarring.

He’s had a female vessel before, albeit briefly, but it feels like it was lifetimes ago. Back in those days he used to be completely disconnected from it, acutely aware of the distinction between his own sense of self and _it._ Not to mention it was a body he was borrowing. The woman he shared it with, a Sunday school teacher by the name of Frances Whitmore, was devout and that’s all he really remembers about her. He left her without sentiment, content to return back to Heaven, back to his true form made up of divine equations that, unlike humans, made perfect sense. Then there was Jimmy, then Claire – he still hates to think about that, she was only twelve, it wasn’t fair to ask this of her – then Jimmy again, and then…. Then Castiel died for the first time, and when he came back, it was without his human host. The buffer of Jimmy’s presence gone, Castiel could no longer pretend he was just occupying a vessel. That body was stabbed, shot, carved into and violated in every way imaginable, and it was his.

He’s grown rather fond of it, too; learned its angles and crevices the way a pianist learns to work the keys of his instrument. Through trial and error, he’s figured out how much pressure to apply for his touch to be non-threatening and comforting, or how far to lift his chin to be able to look Dean directly in the eye. He’s worked hard for the ease of inhabiting this body, and a stray curse put him back in square one.

It might not be permanent, but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting.

On impulse, Castiel bends down to open his duffel and rummages through it until his fingers find the hilt of an angel blade. He pulls it out and lifts it to eye level, catching his own reflection blinking back at him along the sharp edge.

It’s not _that_ different, he supposes. While it’s true that his features have a decidedly feminine look now, he can still recognize his old self in the unchanged shade of his hair or the color of his eyes.

He wonders if that’s why Dean kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror the whole way back to the bunker.

Castiel is still contemplating his new face staring at him from the surface of the blade, tucking his shoulder-length hair behind his ear with mild curiosity, when there’s a knock on the door.

“Cas, you there?”

Cheeks growing hot, Castiel hastily puts the blade away on the nightstand. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t want Dean to think his new appearance bothers him.

“Yes. Come on in.”

The door cracks open, and then Dean’s there with an armful of clothes and a small smile.

“I thought maybe you’d like to change into some more girl-appropriate duds,” he says. His eyes travel down to the too-loose tie, the oversized shirt and the trench coat Castiel is now drowning in. “I, uh, brought some options. We don’t have any actual lady apparel lying around, but I grabbed a couple of things that could work.”

He dumps the pile on Castiel’s bed and starts picking up items one by one, explaining as he goes.

“This is the smallest t-shirt I have,” he says, holding it out in front of his chest like he’s making a sales pitch. “Still probably gonna be a bit big for you, but at least it should be comfy. I also have one that shrank in the laundry,” he adds, showing Castiel a dark blue tee that looks like something out of an eighth grader’s closet. “I was gonna toss it actually, but maybe it’ll fit you. I don’t exactly know your new size, so...”

There’s a hint of embarrassment in Dean’s expression as he puts both t-shirts aside. He casts a quick glance at Castiel, as if picturing the way the clothes will fit, and just as quickly looks away.

“Now for pants, all I could scrounge up are those,” he goes on, presenting a pair of gray pajama bottoms. “Obviously they’re gonna be way too baggy, but they have a drawstring, see? So you can tie ’em tight around your waist. And if you fold up the pant legs as well, you’ll be golden. I mean― I know it’s not ideal, but we probably shouldn’t go on a shopping spree just yet, in case you’re back to being yourself tomorrow.”

“I am myself, Dean,” Castiel says gently.

Dean slowly opens his mouth.

“But I know what you meant,” Castiel adds, taking pity on him. He looks down at the clothes lying on his bed, reaching out to run his hand over the worn material of the plain black t-shirt Dean said was his. “Thank you for these.”

“Uh, sure. No problem.”

Dean makes a move as if to leave, but then doesn’t, and he ends up hovering awkwardly at the foot of the bed. His hand travels up to rub at the back of his neck, and with a jolt, Castiel remembers he’s been hurt during the hunt.

“Is that where you hit the wall?” he asks, pointing at the spot Dean is absent-mindedly massaging.

“Huh? Oh, no, that’s―”

But Castiel is already upright and crowding into Dean’s space.

“Let me,” he says. Eyes fixed firmly on Dean’s face, he puts his right hand on Dean’s nape. There’s definitely a bump there, raised and uncomfortable by the feel of it. Castiel heals it with practiced ease, one gentle pulse of grace, swift and efficient.

This is the moment when he would usually draw back, putting some distance between himself and the dread in Dean’s eyes. That much direct contact isn’t allowed unless in life-threatening situations, and being roughed up after a run-in with a witch certainly doesn’t qualify as such.

Except that when Castiel looks at Dean now, it’s not apprehension he sees. It’s wide eyes, slightly parted lips, and Dean’s face inching closer.

“Thanks,” Dean says, his voice surprisingly soft. And then, “So, are you gonna try these on?”

It takes Castiel a moment to realize Dean’s talking about the clothes he’s brought.

“Oh. Yes, I think I will.”

He picks up one of the t-shirts – Dean’s, not the shrunken one – and contemplates it for a second. Dean was right, it’s likely going to be too big on his slimmer frame, but Castiel thinks he still prefers it over the other one. It’s a little washed out, closer in color to charcoal gray than true black, but it looks like it’ll be comfortable.

When he looks up, Dean is watching him with an expression so akin to wonder Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Are you going to stay while I change?” he asks, raising one eyebrow. He might still stumble over some of the finer aspects of living among humans, but he’s no idiot; he knows that undressing in front of a person of the opposite sex is a big deal. Even if in this case, there’s no shyness to speak of. It wouldn’t make sense for Castiel to feel self-conscious about a body he doesn’t know. In fact, he’s probably just as curious to see what’s underneath his clothes as Dean is.

To his surprise, Dean doesn’t blush or stutter out an apology, excusing himself out of the room. Instead, he raises both hands in front of himself and says:

“I’ll give you some privacy, if you want, but to be honest, I’m curious how everything’s gonna fit. I’ll turn away when you ask, promise.”

Castiel blinks. That’s not how he expected this to go, but if that’s what Dean wants, there’s no reason to deprive him of it.

“All right,” he says. “Then turn away.”

He plans to make quick work of it, leaving any further exploration of his temporarily changed physique for later, so he doesn’t linger; he takes everything off, then throws on the t-shirt, pulls on the lounge pants, and taps Dean’s shoulder to let him know he’s done.

When Dean turns back to face him, a smile touches his lips and crinkles appear around his eyes.

“Well shucks, Cas, you can really pull off that mismatched domestic getup.”

Before Castiel can process that statement (he _thinks_ it’s a compliment), Dean reaches out to lightly run his fingers through his hair. Part of it got trapped by the collar of Castiel’s – Dean’s – t-shirt, so he gathers it up between his thumb and middle finger, pulls it free, and watches as it falls down over Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’m kinda enjoying this version of you,” he murmurs.

Castiel has about two seconds to react before it happens; two excruciatingly long seconds of furious internal battle. His decision-making synapse ping-pongs frantically, back and forth: _I want it – he doesn’t mean it – once is better than never – it’ll mess us up in the long run – at least for tonight – we’ll both regret this – he looks so hopeful –_

Dean’s lips touch his, and Castiel doesn’t turn his face away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He knows it’s a bad idea from the second the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed.

He knows it the same way he knew he shouldn’t conspire with Crowley to find Purgatory, or say yes to Lucifer, or steal the Colt. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll blow up in his face, that it’ll hurt later – it hurts _now_ – but he can’t see how he could possibly fight against it.

Dean kisses him with increasing momentum, first just brushing their lips together, then cupping his face and deepening the kiss, then leaning into Castiel with his whole body, until they’re pressed together from head to toe and Castiel has no choice but to throw his arms around him and pull him even closer. They stumble a couple of steps towards the bed and the next thing Castiel knows, he’s lying there with Dean on top of him.

_This is a bad idea_ , reason reminds him. _He’s probably already forgotten it’s you_. _It’s this body he wants. Stop him._

“Dean,” he tries. He hates the way his voice comes out, high-pitched and breathless and not his own. He slides his hand into Dean’s hair, tugging it a little to get his attention. He doesn’t mean to rile him up, but that’s exactly what happens; Dean’s pupils are blown to hell when he looks back at him.

“What? What do you need?”

_To have you see me_ , Castiel thinks, but what he says is: “More.”

Dean’s answering grin, boyish and joyous, melts away the last of Castiel’s resolve. He tilts his head back, giving Dean free access to the hollow of his throat.

He doesn’t talk again for a long time, partly because he doesn’t want to hear his changed voice and partly because he still half expects reason to take over, to make him say _no_ or _stop_ or _it’s still me, do you remember? do you care?_ Dean doesn’t seem to have a problem with Castiel’s silence, filling it with his own murmured words, low and scattered into monosyllables. He’s not exactly talkative, but there are these small sounds spilling out of him, almost like he can’t help it, and Castiel cannot get enough of them.

He does a rather good job of keeping his mouth shut, if he says so himself – even when Dean fingers him open, even when he goes down on him – but when they finally come together, Dean’s name punches out of him like he can’t hold it any second longer.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and kisses him again. “Yeah.”

It stops to matter that his voice isn’t right, because Castiel doesn’t hear it anymore. He gathers Dean closer, right palm on his shoulder blade and left at the back of his neck, and he holds on to him tight enough to bruise. The headboard starts knocking into the wall as Dean’s movements grow faster, shifting them both higher up the bed. Tension builds slowly, much slower than Castiel remembers from his first (and until now, only) sexual encounter. He supposes anatomy comes into play here, although he doesn’t dwell on it much. Makes no difference; it’s not like he’ll have a chance to do this again in his own body and draw a comparison.

Soon Dean’s arms start shaking, bending at the elbows just a little to compensate for it. Castiel looks up at him, at his closed eyes and furrowed brow, and knows they’re hurtling towards the end now.

He clutches at Dean’s back to the point of pain.

“Not yet,” he pleads. “Dean, not yet.”

Dean’s eyes pop open and land on him, unfocused and dark in the dim light of the room. He nods like he understands, but then his left hand leaves the spot next to Castiel’s head and slips in between them.

“S’okay,” he mutters, “I’ll get you there, don’t worry.”

Castiel almost laughs aloud – like he’d need any additional help in “getting there”, with Dean above and inside him – but then it’s over, just like that; his nails dig into Dean’s nape, his back arches, and nothing rings out in his ears but the sound of Dean’s name in that foreign, unfamiliar voice.


	2. Dean

The old school alarm clock on the bedside table says it’s 8:19 a.m.

Dean blinks at it for a second or two, face slack, before his brain comes out of its sleep-addled state to remind him that he doesn’t have a clock like that in his room. The realization makes his memories of last night slot into place in quick succession – the hunt, the witch’s curse, Cas getting turned into a girl with the most _gorgeous_ face―

Dean has never gone from groggy to alert faster.

They had sex last night.

He had sex.

With _Cas_.

Fucking finally.

He rolls over, expecting to find Cas watching him, but the other side of the bed is empty. Trying to stifle his disappointment, he sits up and casts a quick glance around the room to locate his clothes. As he climbs out of bed and puts them on, he can’t help himself from remembering how they ended up on the floor in the first place.

To be fair, the undressing was probably the least memorable part of the evening. It’s what happened before (he kissed Cas – Cas _kissed him back_ ) and after (Dean’s a passionate guy, ask anyone, but that was on a whole other level) that has his head spinning. Who would have thought it’d take some random witch throwing curses willy-nilly to coax him into doing what he’d wanted to for years.

Now, Dean isn’t exactly proud of how it went down. He’d much rather it happened because he finally found his courage, like some infatuated Cowardly Lion or whatever, not because Cas got zapped into a body Dean didn’t have any hang-ups about wanting.

Here they are, though.

Stepping out of Cas’s bedroom and closing the door behind him, Dean’s greeted with silence and muted, yellow light coming from the lamps lining the hallway walls. The bunker always seems eerily calm in the morning, in a way that most people would probably find creepy, but Dean loves it. He’ll never grow tired of walking down these corridors, listening to the sound of his own footsteps. No matter how much you paid him, he wouldn’t go back to living in motels and camping out in Baby’s backseat.

There are muffled voices coming from the kitchen as he approaches, loud enough that he recognizes them as Sam’s and Cas’s, yet quiet enough that he can’t make out the words. For a brief moment, he’s overcome with the temptation to eavesdrop, but he shakes it off just as quickly, mad at himself for even considering it. There’ll be no lurking around and spying on each other in his house, no sir. Stride purposeful, he turns around the corner and walks into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to take in the sight of domesticity à la Winchester.

Sam and Cas are sitting at the table facing each other, the former slurping a smoothie ( _ugh_ ) and the latter staring into a coffee mug. Neither of them looks as well-rested and relaxed as Dean would hope to see them at this hour of the day. In fact, despite Sam being turned away, Dean can tell from the way his brother is holding himself, ramrod straight and tense, that he’s upset about something. It’s a little odd, since he was in an okay mood just last night, but Dean doesn’t have the time to examine it too closely, because then there’s Cas, looking like himself again.

He’s still wearing the clothes Dean gave him, and it makes something warm and possessive curl in Dean’s stomach. As cute as he looked in them last night, the way the worn fabric of the t-shirt stretches over his chest and shoulders now is just as delicious.

When Cas looks up and sees him, his hands tighten on the ceramic of his mug like he’s steeling himself for something.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Hey there, stranger,” Dean says brightly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Cas looks like he doesn’t quite know how to respond. Sam however turns in his seat and wow, Dean was right; he seems serious. Pissed, almost.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean says carefully.

Instead of an answer, Sam gives him a spectacular stink eye.

Okay, there’s definitely something Dean’s missing (did he shrink the laundry again? forget to buy gluten-free cereal?), but he doesn’t have time for Sam’s pissy attitude right now. Whatever crawled up his brother’s ass and died, it can wait while Dean deals with the important stuff.

He turns to Cas.

“So. You’re back.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth twitches dangerously, but he inclines his head, just a little, and doesn’t say anything.

“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” Dean plows on, glancing between Sam and Cas. “With how much trouble that witch gave us, I’d expect the curse to last a little longer than that.”

“Guess you’ll just have to live with it,” Sam says. His tone is so unpleasant, Dean almost recoils. What is _happening_?

“Sam,” Cas says, a warning note in his voice. “Please don’t.”

Disoriented and more than a little hurt, Dean stares at the silent communication that appears to be happening in front of him. Sam purses his lips and raises one hand as if in surrender; Cas gives an aborted jerk of his head, white-knuckling his mug so hard Dean expects it to shatter all over the kitchen in a matter of seconds.

“Guys, what―”

“I’m going to go get changed into my old clothes,” Cas announces loudly, cutting Dean off. There’s a determined look on his face as he stands up and pushes his way past Dean, not glancing back at either of the brothers before leaving the room. Dean watches his retreating back, blinking at what feels like a million times a minute, until Sam clears his throat and Dean realizes he’s been staring at an empty doorway.

He exhales, and it feels like his heart escapes through his mouth along with his breath.

He was going to make them breakfast. There’s flour in the pantry, eggs and milk in the fridge, an open bottle of maple syrup (a real one, not that Aunt Jemima shit), and even some frozen fruit in the freezer. He was going to prepare a decadent amount of pancakes for all three of them, and then stuff his cheeks full, one hand clasped around a fork and the other holding Cas’s under the table.

He doesn’t think it’s too much to ask. It’s not like he expected Cas to swoop in and kiss him good morning with Sam right there, or for Sam to clap him on the back and congratulate them profusely. He didn’t expect anything aside from eating a good breakfast and enjoying his family’s company. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise; perhaps he should just nut up and accept the fact that no matter how much he lowers the bar, he’ll always end up being let down.

When he turns to look at Sam, he feels like he doesn’t even have to voice his question; it must be written on his face in big, bold letters.

Sam stares back at him, his expression falling somewhere between “disappointed parent” and “ready to drag you”.

“Seriously?” he says drily. “You’re gonna act like you don’t know what’s wrong?”

“I _don’t._ ”

“Oh, right,” Sam scoffs. “I forgot that in Dean Winchester’s book, having sex with people is inconsequential.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“Did Cas―”

“―tell me? Yeah, he did. Relax,” Sam adds, seeing the panic in Dean’s eyes, “he spared me the details.”

As much as Dean appreciates Cas giving Sam a sanitized account of last night’s events, that’s not what he’s worried about.

“I take it you don’t approve,” he says, voice flat. Of all the things he imagined could go wrong about him and Cas getting together, his brother’s objection was probably the last on the list.

Sam looks like he’s about to pour his unfinished smoothie on Dean’s head.

“Of course I don’t approve, jackass.”

Dean’s gonna throw up. He hasn’t eaten anything yet, so it’s gonna be all bile, or possibly just a lot of dry heaving.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to him. You know damn well how he feels about you, Dean. But what do you care, right? You’ve had your fun.”

All blood drains from Dean’s face. Maybe he’s not gonna vomit after all; maybe he’ll just fucking black out. It seems likely, what with the room starting to spin before his eyes.

He opens his mouth, but Sam isn’t done talking.

“Jesus, did you really expect me to side with you on this? I know you’re my brother, but he’s my friend and you treated him like― like a random hook-up. Scratch that, you treated him worse. So you should count yourself lucky that I don’t smack you right where you stand.”

Blindly, Dean reaches out to brace himself against the table top. It doesn’t stop his legs from trembling, so he falls into the seat Cas has vacated and hides his face in his hands.

That’s not right. That’s not possible. He couldn’t have read it so wrong.

“What did he say, Sam?” he asks, directing his words at Cas’s abandoned mug. Its lukewarm, muddy brown contents look about as pitiful as he feels. “What does he think happened?”

There’s a heavy pause, silence stretching wide and ominous between them. At the tail end of it, Sam lets out a long, long breath.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he says quietly, “that it _wasn’t_ a one-time thing?”

Dean gives a hollow laugh, hands still cupped over his face as if they could shield him from the truth.

“It didn’t even occur to me it could be,” he mutters.

“Dean,” Sam says, unexpectedly loud and sharp. “Look at me.”

Dean would rather not, since he has a terrible suspicion his eyes might be slightly red-rimmed, but Sam’s tone doesn’t leave room for argument. So he drops his hands and lifts his chin, mustering up as much defiance as he can.

“What.”

Sam studies him carefully, something like sympathy flickering across his face before he finally speaks.

“Cas is under the impression,” he says gently, “that the only reason you hooked up with him last night is because you liked the way he looked. From what I gathered, he was fully prepared for your interest to wane when the effects of the curse were reversed. Now, I don’t know how this thing between you went down and I don’t want to – please, never tell me – but you clearly haven’t done enough to convince him otherwise. I’m not accusing you,” he clarifies when Dean flinches. “I’m just telling you his side of the story.”

And that’s the clincher, isn’t it? Because Dean wasn’t aware there even was a different side to that story. His idiot ass was absolutely convinced that him and Cas were on the same page, that kissing Cas soft and gentle communicated Dean’s intentions well enough, that falling asleep pressed closely together spoke louder than words, that Cas _understood_.

Sam sighs, which means Dean’s face journey just told him everything he needed to know.

“You’re hopeless. You go ten years without making a move on the guy, then jump him within 24 hours of him getting gender-swapped, and you’re surprised he thinks it’s not about him?”

Put like that, Dean can’t believe he didn’t realize it sooner. He was so focused on getting over himself, so excited to have an easy way to act on his feelings, handed to him by the universe and an otherwise asshole witch, that he did what he always does.

He forgot to communicate.

“I need to go,” he says, standing up before he knows what he’s doing.

“Please do,” Sam agrees. “Please go and fix it, and preferably close the door behind you.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean has no memory of walking back through the hallways of the bunker. One minute he’s in the kitchen with Sam, the realization of how badly he fucked up dawning on him, and the next he’s standing in front of Cas’s bedroom, _again_ , except now his world is upended in all the wrong ways.

He forces air into his lungs and knocks on the door.

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a quiet “Come on in,” just like the last time.

The first thing Dean registers as he steps into the room is that true to his word, Cas has changed into his old clothes. The trench coat, the slacks, the tie; everything’s back. Yesterday might not have happened at all.

Cas doesn’t stand up from the bed to meet him, though he does look up, eyes wary. His hands have been hanging loosely between his thighs, but now he clasps them together, fingers laced tight.

Dean wants to punch himself for how despondent he looks.

“Yes?” Cas asks.

Oh, right. Here’s where this communication thing comes in.

Dean hesitates, then crosses the distance between them and crouches in front of Cas. Gently, he takes Cas’s hands in his own and, without breaking eye contact, brings them to his lips. The touch makes Cas’s breath hitch in his throat, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pull away, so neither does Dean. Instead, he slowly uncurls Cas’s fingers, lifting Cas’s left hand to place it on his cheek.

“Dean,” Cas says, the name brittle like glass in his mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Apparently I didn’t make myself clear last night,” Dean says. “So here’s me trying to fix that.”

A shadow crosses over Cas’s face.

“You’ve talked to Sam.”

Dean nods.

“What did he tell you? Dean, if you’re trying to prove something―”

Crestfallen, Cas attempts to draw back, but Dean has a firm grip on his hand and he’s not letting go.

“Yeah, I am. I’m trying to prove I’m into you, dumbass.”

“You don’t have to― Dean, it’s okay. The spell wore off.”

“No shit,” Dean murmurs. He twists his head a little to press a kiss into the dip of Cas’s palm. “I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I kinda noticed.”

“Then what is this?”

“What do you think?”

Cas’s mouth opens and closes without a single sound escaping.

He doesn’t know, Dean realizes. He genuinely doesn’t get it. Dean is literally on his knees before him, doing all this Jane Austen shit, knuckle-kissing and all, and Cas stares at him like he’s waiting for Dean to yell “syke!” and explain that it’s some kind of stupid human prank. Like in his mind, Dean wanting him isn’t even remotely within the realm of possibility.

“Listen,” Dean says, trying to imbue his tone with calm and confidence he doesn’t feel, “Listen to me. Yesterday? That was not a one-night stand. And I want to know why you thought it was.”

The crease between Cas’s brows deepens. He leans forward, hand still warm and heavy on Dean’s cheek. His eyes search Dean’s like he’s trying to read his mind and catch him on a lie.

“It was not?” he says slowly.

“Fuck no.”

“Were you….”

Cas’s voice is hesitant, slow in a way that suggests he’s picking his words carefully.

“Were you hoping the spell would last longer? That we’d have a chance to do this again before I changed back into my own body?”

Dean groans.

“Now you’re just being dumb on purpose.”

Cas’s expression hardens, and he yanks his hand away from Dean’s face. Dean doesn’t have the time to either stop it or compensate for it, so he ends up losing his balance and swaying into Cas’s lap. Before he knows what’s going on, he’s being shoved backwards, Cas’s arms pushing at his shoulders with surprising force. When his back hits the floor and Cas stands up, towering above him, all Dean can do is blink up at him with wide eyes.

“If you’ve come to apologize for your lapse in judgment yesterday,” Cas growls, “I would suggest leaving mockery out of it.”

“Cas,” Dean whispers, making no move to pick himself up. The stone floor beneath him seeps cold into his skin, into his wrists and the small of his back where his t-shirt has ridden up. “It wasn’t a lapse in judgment. That’s what I keep trying to tell you, I _meant_ it. Why won’t you believe me?”

Cas shakes his head.

“You didn’t mean it,” he insists. His voice sounds calmer now, but that dangerous undertone is still there. “I understand why you’re pretending like you did, and I appreciate you trying to spare my feelings, but in case you don’t remember, I was there, too. All you focused on was that body—”

“It was you inside, though.”

“A fact easy enough to disregard.”

“I didn’t—”

“I could have been anyone, admit it. Just admit it.”

“That’s not tr—”

_“YOU DIDN’T EVEN SAY MY NAME.”_

The words ring out like an echo, shouted loud enough that they seem to have slashed the air between them into an open wound. Cas’s hands are clenched into fists, and Dean’s suddenly reminded of a dark alleyway, a concrete wall chafing his back and blood on his teeth.

He stares in shock, mind empty of any words he could use to defend himself. Truth is, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. Did he really not use Cas’s name? He certainly remembers Cas using his, at every pitch, from a sigh to a scream. And as thrilling as it was, he couldn’t wait to hear it again in Cas’s regular voice.

He might have neglected to mention it aloud, though.

“You really think that,” he says. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds numb. Dazed. He clambers to his feet, wincing when pain spikes through his tailbone. Cas’s eyes track his movements in a way that can mean he’s either starting to feel guilty for knocking Dean around, or preparing to send him sprawling to the floor again.

Dean takes a gamble and puts himself back in Cas’s personal space. There’s no fist flying to meet his face in response, so that’s good.

“You think I tuned it out,” he says, more of a statement than a question. “That I somehow made myself forget it was you in there.”

Cas stares him square in the eye, unblinking.

“I was certain you did,” he replies.

Dean nods. There’s no point in arguing, since it’s clear that Cas has his own ideas about what happened between them last night, and he’s not going to revise them on Dean’s say-so. So rather than speak, Dean does the only other thing he can think of.

He cups Cas’s face in both hands and kisses him.

The resistance he expected doesn’t come. Cas doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to breathe at all; he lets it happen just like the day before. Dean runs his thumbs over the stubble on Cas’s cheeks, pressing their closed mouths together in the most undemanding way he can manage. When Cas’s lips part under his, he doesn’t take advantage of it to dive in. Instead, he sucks lightly on Cas’s bottom lip before releasing it, moving lower to mouth along his jawline and up the side of his face.

“Still think this isn’t about you?” he mutters, turning his head to nose at the spot below Cas’s ear, then pressing a kiss there.

“Dean,” Cas gasps, his fingers digging almost painfully into Dean’s waist. “You better mean it. You better mean it, because if you don’t—”

“I mean it,” Dean says. He slides his left hand into Cas’s hair, down through the length of it until his palm rests at Cas’s nape. “I meant it yesterday, too.” And before Cas can challenge him again – he still doesn’t look completely convinced, somehow – Dean pulls him into another kiss. This one’s deeper and more desperate, because Dean doesn’t know what he’s gonna do if it’s not enough. He’s already screwed the pooch on the verbal communication front (though he’s not sure where he went wrong, exactly), so if this blatant physical display doesn’t do the trick, Dean will have no choice but to lock himself in his room for the rest of his life, or better yet, shoot himself in the face.

When Cas kisses him back, just as deep and desperate, Dean thinks maybe he’s gotten through to him after all.

“But Dean,” Cas says, pulling away slightly.

Or maybe not.

“Cas, I swear to God—”

“If it wasn’t because of the curse, then why now?”

A heavy sigh escapes Dean’s chest as he closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together. He’s been more afraid of this question than of most monsters he’s fought in his life. He can’t _not_ answer it – Cas deserves the truth, after what Dean has just put him through – but that doesn’t make it any easier or less humiliating.

He breathes in, then out. Even with his eyelids shut tight, he can tell that Cas is watching him. Of course, the poor guy can’t tilt his head to the side like he normally would, because of the whole forehead-touching business, and the thought loosens something in Dean’s chest. It’s Cas. If there’s anyone who won’t judge Dean for what he’s about to say, it’s Cas.

“It’s because I’m a coward,” he admits. “Because with ladies, I know— I have that muscle memory that tells me what to do, so I don’t even have to think about it. I’ve done it so many times that it’s— it’s—”

“It’s familiar,” Cas murmurs in understanding.

“Yeah. Effortless, you know? And with you, it was a double whammy, ‘cause one, our friendship was on the line, and two, you’re a guy – or guy-shaped, I guess – and I’ve never been with— I mean, I thought about it, I… I wanted to, I just didn’t... so when one of the two factors that scared the fuck out of me was gone, I—”

“You ‘went for it’,” Cas says. Hearing the air quotes makes Dean huff a laugh against Cas’s lips.

“I did.”

For a moment, neither of them says anything. Dean can’t bring himself to open his eyes; he’s just made himself so vulnerable that it’s easier to stay in the dark. A part of him is mortified by all the babbling and tripping over words he’s just made Cas endure, but at the same time he feels light as a feather. He _said_ it. And while he chose the most roundabout way to do it, it still counts, right?

Apparently it does, because Cas doesn’t push for more. His left arm is a grounding weight around Dean’s waist, his right slipped under Dean’s to grab at his back, holding him close. The warmth of him pressed against Dean’s chest is intoxicating.

Dean can’t believe he’s been willingly depriving himself of this for so long.

When he finally pulls away and opens his eyes, it’s to give Cas a devilish smile. He can’t wait to steer this conversation away from his own inadequacies and into a more fun territory. Preferably one that doesn’t require speaking at all.

“You know what,” he says. His fingers run over the lapels of Cas’s coat before latching onto the tie around Cas’s neck. “It’s a good thing you put your duds back on.”

Cas’s left eyebrow shoots up.

“Oh? Why is that?”

Dean grins wider.

“Because I’ll enjoy ripping them off of you.”

He expects ( _hopes_ ) to see Cas squirm or at least get a little flustered in the face of such a blatant come-on. So when Cas lifts his chin and asks, “Then what are you waiting for?”, Dean almost creams his pants right then and there.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, and yanks at the tie still clutched in his hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ripping off Cas’s clothes sounds sexy in theory, but when four buttons in a row decide to put up resistance more valiant than the Spartans at Thermopylae, Dean is forced to reconsider.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Dean,” Cas says with barely contained mirth. “Maybe I’ll just—”

“No, I got it! I got it.”

Finally, miraculously, the last button concedes defeat and Dean slips the shirt off, palms sliding down Cas’s arms as he goes. This… might not be Dean’s first time feeling up a dude’s bicep, but it is the first time he actually allows himself to look. His mouth goes dry as he takes in the sheer breadth of Cas’s upper arms, the curved line of his collarbones, the toned muscles of his chest, the little freckle near his nipple _holy shit—_

He startles when Cas reaches out to touch his cheek.

“Dean? I know you said you’re okay with this, but you don’t look as confident as yesterday. If you need more time… if the difference is still too jarring for you, I could put my shirt back on and—”

“No!” Dean blurts. “God, no. Cas, if it were up to me you would never wear a shirt again.”

The smile is slow to spread on Cas’s face, but once it does, it’s radiant.

“As impractical as that sounds,” he says, amused, “I like the implication that you enjoy what you see.”

“Enjoy? Sweetheart, I’m gonna devour you.”

Cas’s surprised laugh cuts off when Dean tackles him to the bed, then climbs over him to straddle his hips. He’s still fully dressed, and he only managed to get Cas half-naked, but he can’t wait any longer. Need simmers under his skin, his lips and fingertips, accelerating his heart rate into a frenzy of short breaths. Yesterday was a stepping stone, but this, _this_ is what he’s wanted for years. This is the body he’s been fantasizing about, picturing while jerking off and shaming himself for desiring.

He bends down to trace his lips over Cas’s chest, smiling against it when he feels fingers sinking into his hair. This must be a thing with Cas, because he did it the night before, too. Even the pressure of his grip is the same, a reminder that the force behind it is independent of whatever body Cas inhabits.

Dean probably shouldn’t find that as hot as he does.

He spends an inordinate amount of time lavishing attention on every inch of Cas’s exposed skin, alternating between using his hands and lips as he methodically moves down. He leaves a trail in his wake, one of hickeys and saliva, of reddened, sensitive skin and Cas’s hands starting to tremble against the back of Dean’s head. By the time he reaches the soft skin of Cas’s lower abdomen, his hard-on has turned painful, and judging by the bulge poking him in the chin, Cas isn’t faring any better.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he undoes Cas’s belt and tugs his slacks down together with his underwear.

Dean hasn’t seen that many dicks up close and personal, but he sure watched his fair share of porn, both gay and straight. Based on that substantial sample, what he has in front of him is, well.

It’s a very fine specimen.

He looks up, not surprised to find blue eyes trained on him. Cas has propped himself on one elbow, bottom lip caught between his teeth and legs spread to accommodate Dean kneeling between them. The view is all kinds of sinful, and Dean knows he must look just as debauched, lips spit-slick and hair ruffled every which way by Cas’s hands.

They consider each other, silent save for their ragged breathing, until Dean reflexively licks his lips and catches responding movement out of the corner of his eye – a movement that turns out to be Cas’s cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.

Dean looks down at it, and then, just as Cas says “You don’t have to”, he grabs the base to wrap his lips around the head.

Almost instantly, the light grip Cas had on Dean’s hair becomes a vice. It’s not painful, but it’s close enough that Dean has to rub himself through his jeans with his free hand to relieve the pressure. He slides his mouth as far down as it will go (which is not very far), mentally reminding himself to breathe through his nose.

Although he tries to act like it isn’t the case, he has no clue what he’s doing. He might as well have been given a crochet needle and told to make a scarf. How the fuck do you handle a crochet needle? Which stitch should you choose if you’re a first timer? What do you do when you kinda really want to deep throat your crochet needle but you’re afraid of choking on it— okay, he should probably drop this analogy.

Determined to make it as good for Cas as possible, Dean settles for careful experimentation. He knows what he himself likes, so he uses it as a guideline – a little suction here, a little tongue there, hide the teeth and keep on keeping.

He starts really enjoying it, too, which is why he pouts like a child when Cas tugs at his hair and unceremoniously pulls him off his dick.

“What? Not good?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cas says. His voice seems to have gone down another octave, which Dean didn’t think was possible. “I just don’t want this to be over before you even take your shirt off.”

“But you already saw me naked yesterday,” Dean says playfully. “So I feel like I have priority here.”

“Then you feel wrong,” Cas tells him. “Now take it off.”

Smirking, Dean shrugs off his flannel and t-shirt, chucking them behind himself before crawling up the bed. Cas has drawn himself into a sitting position, leaned comfortably against the headboard, so Dean straddles his lap and pulls him into a kiss.

“Dean,” Cas growls into it. “Pants, too.”

“How come you weren’t this bossy yesterday?” Dean wonders, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans with practiced movements. He lifts his hips just enough to pull his pants and underwear down to his thighs, sighing when his cock springs free. By the looks of it, he’s not going to last longer than five minutes. He looks up at Cas, an easy smile on his lips, and he’s about to lean in for another kiss when Cas actually answers his question.

“I thought it was a singular event, Dean,” he mutters. “I focused on committing it to memory. If I wasn’t talking much, that’s probably why.”

Dean’s heart shrivels in his chest. The way Cas says it, it’s almost apologetic, like he’s explaining himself for making assumptions.

“Jesus,” Dean whispers. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ fucking sorry—”

“I know,” Cas repeats, his tone gentle. “But we can’t go back to change it. We can, however, agree that this – here, now – is the time that matters.”

“Yesterday mattered,” Dean protests faintly.

The corners of Cas’s mouth lift in a small, sad smile.

“Yes, but it meant something different for you than for me. What does this mean for you, Dean?”

“This? You mean—?” Dean waves a hand between them.

“Yes. This.”

“I…”

Cas regards him patiently, and it occurs to Dean that one way or another, he’s gonna have to respond. No omissions, no half-truths, and certainly no silences that Cas could fill with his own false assumptions of being unwanted.

Dean’s tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he knows the answer – has known it for years – and if now isn’t the right time, there never might be.

“Means I need you,” he says, voice cracking.

“Because…?”

“Because you’re you, all right? And because—” He can’t believe he’s about to say it, to reveal the card he’s been so careful to hold close to his chest at all times. He thought he was going to die with it still there. He thought Cas wasn’t even playing the same game he was. “Because I’m so in love with you that the idea of you thinking I don’t want this drives me fucking insane.”

The words make it out of his mouth, and the world doesn’t fall into chaos. The bunker doesn’t crumble down on their heads. No divine force descends from above to denounce him and smite his blasphemous ass. There’s no reaction from the universe whatsoever – except maybe from the universe trapped somewhere beneath the thin barrier of Cas’s hands, which cup Dean’s face and thumb away something wet running down his cheek.

The universe in general doesn’t care, but Dean’s universe smiles at him and says, “Then I think we are on the same page.”

And all it took was pissing off a witch, an angel and Sam Winchester, in this exact order.

“Say it,” Dean demands. He’s not moving a damn inch from where he’s sitting until he hears it back.

His hands are sweaty and gross, but Cas takes them in his and rests them against his chest anyway as he complies with Dean’s request, pressing the words into his mouth, the taut line of his neck and the meat of his shoulder.

Under Dean’s folded palms, Cas’s heartbeat drums like an insect frantically throwing itself against a window glass, and Dean feels a little better about the tear that escaped him without his permission.

“It’s okay,” he whispers when Cas says another _I love you_ like it might kill him. “I know. Me too.”

With some difficulty, he frees his hands from between them, pressing the left one to Cas’s cheek and wrapping the right one around their cocks, both still hard by some miracle. He runs the pad of his finger over the heads, delighting at the way Cas shivers against him in response. A fresh spurt of precome rises to the tip, and Dean smears it up and down to get that nice glide going. His palm is hardly big enough to cover them both, but he can’t bring himself to shift his other one from its spot on Cas’s face, where he feels the scratch of stubble and a fluttering pulse point beneath his fingers.

Cas is still murmuring into his ear, face hidden in the crook of Dean’s neck. He’s now exchanged his _I love you_ s for Dean’s name, but the pitch is identical, like it’s all the same to him, like the two are entirely synonymous.

Dean kisses the side of his head and speeds up the movements of his hand, slipping through the mess with ease now.

“Dean,” Cas whimpers, his nails digging under Dean’s ribs. “Dean.”

Through the haze of impeding pleasure, Dean manages to remember the accusation Cas threw at him earlier.

“Cas,” he grunts back, loud and impossible to miss, right into Cas’s ear. “Cas, honey— let go, okay?”

A moan catches in Cas’s throat, and Dean feels warm drops spatter on his chest. It’s that, along with the sensation of Cas’s cock jerking against his, that tips Dean over the edge. He chokes out Cas’s name again, thighs trembling and fingers tightening in Cas’s hair as he comes in thick spurts between them. He strokes them both through it until it almost hurts; until Cas makes a small, pained sound against his ear and covers his hand with his own, halting the movement altogether.

For no reason other than that he can, Dean shifts sideways and dips his head to capture Cas’s lips. It takes some gentle coaxing to get Cas to respond – his eyes are dazed and glazed over as he looks up – but Dean doesn’t mind; he cradles Cas’s face and kisses him until Cas gets with the program.

There’s a disgusting, crusted layer of dried come on both of them by the time they pull away.

“Gross,” Dean mutters, but grins all the same. “Do you have something to clean that up with?”

“There’s a towel next to the sink, but that would require one or both of us to move,” Cas says. He tightens his arms around Dean’s waist, so clearly neither is a real possibility.

“Okay. Your sheets, your problem.”

“What?”

Fighting not to laugh, Dean grabs the nearest sheet corner and uses it to wipe them both down. The come has dried down stiff, so he spits on it a little to get the job done.

“There,” he announces, tucking the sheet back in its place. He ignores the appalled look on Cas’s face, clambering off of his lap and tugging at his arm until they’re both lying down, Cas flat on his back with Dean’s head pillowed on his chest. Something’s still not quite right, so Dean finds Cas’s hand and squeezes it, light but unyielding. He can feel Cas’s smile against the top of his head as Cas squeezes back.

They didn’t do anything like that last night. Dean had already been exhausted by the hunt and the drive, so a vigorous round of sex put him to sleep faster than any boring research ever could. All he remembers is pulling Cas closer by the waist, saying something along the lines of ‘that was awesome’, and then the lights were out. Maybe he spent a minute or two pressing kisses to the back of Cas’s neck before slipping into unconsciousness, but the memory is rather blurry and he can’t be certain.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I know I said it already, but— I’m sorry. About yesterday. You deserved better.”

Beneath Dean’s cheek, Cas’s chest rises and falls with a sigh.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, Dean. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, a misunderstanding that could’ve been cleared up in five seconds if I’d bothered to tell you— you know. The thing I told you just now.”

“Oh, _that_ thing.”

“Shut up. You know I’m no good at this shit.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing pretty well.”

“Wasn’t doing so great last night.”

To that, Cas doesn’t reply right away. He loosens their entwined fingers and starts playing with Dean’s hand, following the dips between his knuckles. It’s such an intimate yet innocent gesture that Dean needs to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat.

“It wasn’t just your fault,” Cas says, his fingers now tracing the veins on the back of Dean’s hand, thin green lines barely visible under the skin. “I could have stopped you at any time. I nearly did a few times. I could have… I _should_ have asked what you expected from me. But I felt certain that I knew already, and I didn’t want to hear you confirm it.”

Although it requires him to twist his neck like something out of _The_ _Exorcist_ , Dean angles his head to catch Cas’s eye.

“I wanted to have it,” Cas whispers. His fingers have wandered down to the inside of Dean’s wrist, running back and forth over his pulse point. “To have you, just once. Even if it wasn’t real.”

Dean’s neck is already screaming in protest, but it would have to snap in half to make him look away now. He watches as Cas’s mouth quirks up in a self-deprecating half-smile, and suddenly he can’t stand it.

He props himself on one elbow ( _fucking thank you_ , his neck says) so that he’s hovering over Cas, and frees his other hand from Cas’s grip, using it to gently tip Cas’s head towards himself.

“I hate that this is how you’re gonna remember it,” he says softly, “and I know this won’t change much, but I want you to listen to how _I_ remember it. Don’t frown at me,” he adds when he sees Cas’s brows draw together.

“I don’t want to hear what you liked about a body that wasn’t mine,” Cas says.

“And you won’t. I mean, did I think you looked hot as a girl? Sure. I imagine that’s what Jimmy would have looked like if you switched out his Y chromosome.”

“I think you overestimate the complexity of this type of witchcraft.”

“But as sexy as it was,” Dean continues, ignoring the interruption, “it’s not what I’m gonna remember.”

“What _are_ you gonna remember?” Cas concedes, rolling his eyes.

“Glad you asked,” Dean grins. He bends down for a kiss and doesn’t pull away once it’s over, brushing their lips together as he begins listing all the details still vivid in his mind.

“First off, I’m gonna remember how tightly you held on to me. How hard I had to work to even take your clothes off, because you just wouldn’t let go of me.” The light pink tinge that rises to Cas’s cheeks at those words delights Dean, and he presses another kiss to Cas’s mouth. “I’m gonna remember the way you looked at me the whole time. There was never a moment when I looked at you and didn’t find you staring back. Like you couldn’t look your fill. Like… yeah, like that. This exact look.” Cas lowers his eyes, but Dean lifts his chin up and kisses his nose. “Don’t get self-conscious on me now. I’m not calling you out; it’s fucking _hot_ when you do that.”

“Duly noted,” Cas murmurs. He brings his arms around Dean’s shoulders and glances up at him with so much fondness it hurts to look at. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. The way you kept saying my name at the end.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. You’re not the only one who enjoys that, you know,” Dean teases. “And I’m sorry if I didn’t, um… return the favor or whatever. I don’t usually go shouting people’s names in bed, ‘cause it’s a recipe for disaster if your partners change faster than you can keep track of them.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean cringes inwardly. What the _hell?_ This is not let’s-talk-about-my-slutty-habits time; it’s well past let-Cas-know-it-was-always-about-him o’clock.

“My point is, I thought I was gonna lose my mind when you went loud. I don’t think anyone has ever used my name this much during sex.”

“It wasn’t – too much?” Cas asks, worry flitting across his face.

“God, no. Just the right amount,” Dean smiles.  

“That’s good to hear,” Cas tells him, the sincerity in his voice disarming, “because I intend to keep that up.”

“You better. Anyway, all of that, those were the things you _did_ , not the things you were. They sure as fuck didn’t have anything to do with how you looked. Again, I know it ain’t gonna fix everything, but just remember that’s what I saw.”

There’s nothing more to say – nothing Dean can think of, at least – so he shuts up and stares at Cas in anticipation, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Exposing himself like that was freaking exhausting (no wonder he doesn’t do it often), and he can’t tell if it actually helped. If it didn’t – well, he’s just gonna have to live with the knowledge that he royally fucked up their first time. What’s one more burden, anyway.

Cas is looking at him in that intent, assessing way he has, one that makes Dean feel like a bug under a microscope. His arms are still wound tightly around Dean’s shoulders, mouth parted and a little red from Dean kissing him every time he needed a break from all that soul-baring. There’s a love bite on the side of his neck, a stray curl of hair swept down his forehead, and he looks unreal.

Then, into the scant space between them, Cas breathes a quiet _I understand._ His eyes shine with joy Dean has never seen on him, and when he leans up to crush their mouths together, pressing his whole body against Dean’s, Dean knows that he’s been heard.


	3. Morgan

She’s sipping an infusion of jasmine tea, enjoying the soft light of the late afternoon seeping through the slanted windows, when the door of the café opens and a woman appears in the entryway.

Her hair is like flames and her clothes, from the elaborately ornate burgundy dress to the pointed, high-heeled boots, suggest a fashion sense entirely devoid of contemporary influences.

The woman casts a quick glance around the room and strides forward, stopping in front of the small, round table tucked into the corner of the café.

“Morgan,” she says in greeting.

“Rowena.”

“May I have a word?”

Wincing, Morgan puts her teacup back into the saucer with a soft clink.

“If you have to. Just don’t sit on Tilly. She won’t like that.”

Rowena looks down at the chair opposite Morgan, wooden and mismatched like all the others in the café. There’s a tabby cat napping in it with its head resting on its front paws, its whiskers twitching minutely.

“I’ll just keep standing, shall I?” Rowena says testily, but then Tilly’s green eyes blink up at her and she jumps down onto the floor in one graceful movement. Her tail sways in the air as she crosses under the table to leap into Morgan’s lap. From the new vantage point on her owner’s knees, Tilly stares at Rowena like she expects a thank-you for giving up the chair.

“How kind,” Rowena says. There’s no trace of irony in it, and Morgan takes it as an act of goodwill. She nods towards the emptied chair, putting her hand on Tilly’s head and starting to stroke her behind her ears.

Once seated, Rowena doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“I received a very interesting phone call from Sam Winchester this morning. Would you like to hazard a guess what it was about?”

Briefly, Morgan toys with the idea of playing dumb. Riling Rowena up is always so satisfying, and the subject of Sam Winchester in particular seems to affect her more than any other. Then again, Morgan doesn’t care enough to bother with lying.

“I assume it has something to do with our recent encounter,” she replies easily. “He did tell you they tried to kill me, right?”

“Because you were careless enough to draw their attention.”

“It’s not like I murdered anyone,” Morgan scoffs.

“That’s not what Sam said.”

“Well, sure, the guy ended up dead, but it was his own fault.”

“He didn’t just end up dead, dear. You melted his internal organs.”

Morgan rolls her eyes. While she did prepare and plant the hex bag that eventually led to Kyle Irving’s death, the man’s fate was his own doing.

“Come on, Ro, you know I don’t walk around killing people without good reason. I like to keep a low profile, precisely because I loathe dealing with hunters.”

“Then why did you leave a liquified corpse for them to find?” Rowena asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean to. His roommate came home before I could clean up after myself. Very unfortunate.”

Rowena’s face twists in a grimace, like she’s familiar with the issue.

“I guess it was nice of you not to kill the roommate as well.”

“Thank you,” Morgan says, raising her cup as if in toast before taking a sip. Honestly, more people should appreciate her restraint.

“What did you mean when you said it was his own fault?” Rowena asks after a moment of silence.

Pursing her lips, Morgan runs her finger along the rim of her teacup. A part of her would prefer to keep the specifics to herself, but at the same time the desire to impress Rowena is overpowering.

She clears her throat.

“It wasn’t a regular hex bag. I fiddled with it a little before hiding it in his room.”

“Fiddled how?” Rowena prods.

“It’s behavior-triggered,” Morgan explains, no longer able to keep the pride out of her voice. “It only activates when the target performs a predetermined act.”

Rowena whistles quietly under her breath.

“Well, well. That’s advanced magic.”

Morgan tries her best not to preen. She’s always been confident in her skills, but receiving a compliment like that from Rowena MacLeod herself is something to be cherished. Tilly seems to think so too, because she sits up and affectionately bumps her head against the underside of Morgan’s jaw.

“What did he do, then?” Rowena asks. “The lad you fried from the inside out. What was his, ah, _predetermined act_?”

Morgan’s face darkens.

“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say the scumbag deserved every last bit of pain he suffered before he died. And I didn’t hurt anyone else after him. Well, I might have incapacitated and used a few people here and there to facilitate my escape when the Winchesters caught wind of me, but nothing permanently damaging.” She sighs, rubbing her temple tiredly. “Please don’t tell me they’re gonna keep hunting me. The last couple of weeks have been rather stressful.”

Rowena considers her for a moment, chin held elegantly between her thumb and forefinger. They both know she’s holding all the cards; she could easily help the Winchesters finish the job, and she could just as easily send them on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction.

“I’ll sort it out,” she says eventually. “But,” she adds, raising her hand when Morgan looks up with relief, “on two conditions. One: you keep your head down. No more dead bodies. If you slip one more time and they pick up your trail, I won’t feel obliged to protect you in any way.”

“Trust me, I have no intention of advertising my existence to them any more than I already have,” Morgan says. She means it, too; living in a constant state of vigilance and rounding every corner expecting to see a bunch of hunters poised to kill you is no fun at all. “And number two?” she prompts.

Rowena puts both arms on the table and leans forward, eyes sparking with curiosity.

“The gender-swapping spell. Why?”

Morgan laughs.

“That’s it? You just want to know why I did it?”

“Yes. And don’t give me that ‘I cast the first spell that came to my mind’ rubbish. Your whole life you haven’t done a single thing that wasn’t deliberate.”

“I really haven’t, have I?” Morgan says thoughtfully. She taps the saucer in front of her with one fingertip, murmuring a well-practiced spell. The runes etched around the perimeter of the porcelain crackle orange, and a fresh wave of steam rises from the cup.

“Case in point,” Rowena smirks.

Morgan takes a sip of her reheated tea, petting Tilly’s head with her free hand.

“They’re good hunters,” she says eventually. “They followed me like bloodhounds. After one narrow escape, I realized I couldn’t just run; I had to be proactive. So I used astral projection to spy on them and find out what they were planning. Since I couldn’t hear them, I paid special attention to their body language, and I noticed something funny. The one with bowlegs—”

“Dean.”

“—and the one in the trench coat—”

“Castiel.”

“—were in love with each other. Did you know about that?”

“Of course,” Rowena answers breezily. “I’m not blind. But as much as they lack subtlety, it’s still impressive how you managed to glean that from astral projecting your consciousness into the room with them for what, five, ten minutes? No offense, dear, but you’re not powerful enough for more.”

“They both had that look,” Morgan says, graciously ignoring the jab at her magic. “The look of someone who wants what they can’t have. They practically took turns staring at each other like that when the other was turned away. Frankly, it was painful to watch. So when they ambushed me yesterday, I didn’t want to use just any boring disarming spell. I wanted to kick that hornet’s nest into the stratosphere. You have to admit, Ro… there was no better way to screw with both of them at the same time.”

Rowena bites her lip as if trying to hold in a laugh.

“From what Sam told me, you’ve actually done them a favor.”

“Oh, so they reversed the spell already?”

It takes Rowena a second to put the pieces together, but once she does, her eyes go round with surprise.

“You crafty lass,” she says, a slow grin spreading across her face. “You added some of your behavior-triggered magic into that spell, didn’t you?”

“I thought it would be hilarious if it only deactivated after intercourse. So if Castiel is back—”

Rowena throws her head back and laughs.

“Oh, this is delightful,” she says. “I underestimated you, my dear, truly. You have the imaginative malice of a true witch. But what if they hadn’t… consummated?”

“Then I expect they’d come crawling to you for help. That spell would easily hold for months.”

“Delightful,” Rowena repeats. Her chair creaks as she stands up and puts a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “They won’t bother you again, I promise. As long as you don’t drop any more bodies,” she adds sternly.

Morgan rolls her eyes, but nods nonetheless. Rowena quirks a smile and turns on her heel, her dress swishing around her ankles as she leaves the café. Once she’s safely out of sight, Morgan leans back in her chair, heaving a long, relieved sigh.

“Did you hear that, Tilly?” she murmurs, stroking her finger under Tilly’s chin. “We’re out of the woods. The big scary hunters will be too busy making manly love to each other to chase us.”

There’s a barely perceptible shift in the air, and Morgan’s chair groans under sudden new weight.

“I still think you should’ve used that spell on the other one,” Tilly says, winding her arms around Morgan’s neck and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“You only say that because you wanted to see what a pretty girl he would make,” Morgan tuts.

“Yes. Are you jealous?”

Morgan licks her lips. Technically, she has no reason to be.

But it’s always such a delicious game to play.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable version](https://debatchery.tumblr.com/post/184667795102/the-hornets-nest)


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